


Bitter Friends

by mariadperiad20



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, BAMF Bobby Singer, Canon-Typical Violence, Dead John Winchester, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Not Canon Compliant, Parental Bobby Singer, Protective Bobby Singer, Protective Ellen Harvelle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:47:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28005624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariadperiad20/pseuds/mariadperiad20
Summary: The first time Bobby’d seen a bruise on Dean’s young face, he couldn’t help the pulse of fear in the back of his mind. In that moment, all he could think of was his father, and he found himself wanting to kill John Winchester.John had brushed it off with a joke about childhood scuffles, and Bobby had laughed and not mentioned it again. Maybe it had been nothing. But he had known, somehow, in that moment. He knew what it was - of course he did - and that was what sealed John’s fate. Not immediately, but from that moment on, every path led to the same inevitable moment.A gun in Bobby's hands, and a bullet in John's head.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 86
Collections: Supernatural





	Bitter Friends

The first time Bobby’d seen a bruise on Dean’s young face, he couldn’t help the pulse of fear in the back of his mind. In that moment, all he could think of was his father, and he found himself wanting to kill John Winchester.

John had brushed it off with a joke about childhood scuffles, and Bobby had laughed and not mentioned it again. Maybe it had been nothing. But he had known, somehow, in that moment. He knew what it was - of course he did - and that was what sealed John’s fate. Not immediately, but from that moment on, every path led to the same inevitable moment.

A gun in Bobby's hands, and a bullet in John's head.

Dean and Sam would come by every now and then, when John was on hunts, or wanted to get Dean extra training.

Bobby was always happy to take them - mostly because he liked the kids, genuinely. Partly because he liked when they weren’t around John.

Dean was polite. Always polite. It didn’t matter if he showed up with a bruise, or a scrape, or nothing at all - he was always polished. And eager to talk about how his dad liked his shooting, or whatever it was they'd been working on that week.

Sam didn’t talk much. He tended to watch, as if he could soak in knowledge from just observing. Judging by the intelligent questions he asked, though, Bobby was inclined to believe the kid was capable of doing just that.

Bobby had tried to bring up Dean’s face a couple more times, but John always brushed it off - and then Bobby wouldn’t see either of the kids for a few weeks.

So Bobby stopped asking.

The first time Sam showed up with a cut across his face, Bobby had asked Sam what happened. Sam said nothing, and just stared at Dean.

Then Bobby asked Dean. And he had seen that anger that always simmered in John’s eyes after a night of drinking reflected across Dean’s face.

“He fell.” Dean answered finally, forcing out the words, before adding guiltily. “It was my fault.”

Bobby didn’t believe him on either fronts - but figured Dean believed the second part, at any rate.

Sam never showed up with so much as a scratch ever since that day. But Dean tended to have them, more and more often. Never many, but rarely none.

Bobby could only remain silent so long. He tended to meet up with John at the Roadhouse, but instead offered John to come back to his place after his hunt for a beer. It’d had been too long since they caught up, after all. And John had accepted, as he always did. They were friends, after all. The word seemed twisted, now.

John pulled up in his Impala, stepping out of it with a wide grin.

“Bobby, it’s good to see you again!” He said cheerily.

“Yeah.” Bobby replied, wiping off the grease from his gun - he was cleaning them in his garage, watching for John’s approach.

“Want to head inside? Hunt ran later than I thought.” The sun setting behind them indicated John was speaking the truth.

“We need to talk.” Bobby had replied - or, at least he thought he did.

If asked to recall what their conversation entailed, Bobby wouldn’t be able to say. He wasn’t even entirely sure of himself, if he’d even had the gun in his hands to begin with. If he’d been cleaning it, why had it been loaded? Part of him thought that maybe he hadn’t even had a conversation at all, that he’d planned to do it from the very beginning, rather than had it occur in a spur of the moment. He wasn't even sure if he had been the garage at all.

Bobby didn’t know. He didn’t _want_ to know. No good would come of it.

What he did know was that he fired a single bullet straight into John Winchester’s skull. Killing him in an instant.

Bobby also didn't know how long he stood there, holding the gun. Long enough that the light of the sun had all but faded, and the sprawl of red on the ground had long since soaked into the dirt, turning to mud.

People would ask questions, sure. John wasn’t exactly off the grid - he was one of the most well-known, most well-respected hunters out there. Bobby was pretty sure he was the only one out there with more connections than the famed Winchester. But John’s connections didn’t matter, not really.

Hunters vanished all the time. Sure, it usually brought a hellstorm down of other hunters looking for revenge, or justice, or glory, but Bobby was good enough that he could make it work. He could fake a report, make a cover story that would stick. He knew about the demon deal - of course he did, he wasn’t stupid. John had told him, drunkenly one night, about how he had to save Dean. John had also admitted to him that he didn’t have the guts to kill Sam - something Bobby didn’t understand at the time, or even now - to stop some supposed evil. But, John had tried to justify, if he raised Dean just right - or just wrong, in Bobby’s silent opinion - then the kid would take care of it for him.

Bobby had to give John credit for one thing. The man was calculating.

The only problem was that he calculated out to be a complete asshole.

But Bobby could use that to his advantage. It hadn’t been 10 years since he had made that deal. It’d only been, what, a few years? But he could still make that work - say that the famed Winchester’s soul was in such high demand that the demons had wanted a shorter timeline. He just had to fake… hm. He could burn the body - firstly, to get rid of the… actually high chance of ghost-John ganking him. Secondly, it would help to remove the evidence. Besides, no one would want the two kids to see their dad all torn up, like he would have been if there had been a hellhound that got him.

Then he just had to tell Ellen the cover story - Roadhouse was where most hunters exchanged gossip, so if he could control that information, few, if any, questions would be asked. Not that suspicion would be thrown his way in the first place, but hunters were unfortunately very good at their jobs, and he had to take precautions anyway.

The plan worked. It would work.

Bobby grimaced, before bending down and heaving John up, wrapping his arms under his and lugging him away from the garage. Fuck, he was getting too old for this. He dropped John’s body down a safe distance away, before hurrying back inside to get his salt, gasoline, and a lighter. He sidestepped the blood-soaked dirt near the door, mentally reminding himself to fix that, too.

Ten minutes, and one match, later, John Winchester was burning.

Bobby supposed, in an oddly detached way, that that was what his soul was doing down in Hell too.

He didn’t want to think about that - the fact that, yeah, he’d probably sent his friend to Hell a bit early. Not just killed him. So, he chose not to think about it, instead just getting a shovel and digging a hole. He scraped all of the red-stained mud into it. Placing all of the dry dirt on top and over where John Winchester had bled out. Hiding what had transpired.

This was for the best.

Bobby realized his hands were shaking.

He dropped the shovel, stumbling back over to the still-burning, makeshift pyre, not wanting the blaze to get out of control. The smell was horrendous - as burned bodies always were - but Bobby couldn’t make himself move away. He supposed he’d earned this fate. Standing here, inhaling the smell of his friend’s burning flesh.

Nevermind the fact that his friend had done… well, all of that. Bobby wasn’t sure if he… he wasn’t sure. John Winchester had been a friend, one of his few rocks in life. And he’d brought Dean and Sam into his life, which… well, those two kids had been the highlights in his otherwise miserable existence. He couldn’t bring himself to feel contempt for John, even as he had killed him without hesitation.

He stared down at the body, now mostly bones, that were rapidly blackening from the heat. Empty eye sockets stared back at him, demanding he speak. Demanding guilt from their owner’s closest friend.

“John…” Bobby said. His throat burned from standing too close to the smoke. He couldn’t make himself move away. “I- I-” He couldn’t make himself say he was sorry. He would be lying, and they both knew it.

He thought a moment, before simply stating, “I’m a hunter. I kill monsters. You must understand that… that I did what I had to do, here.”

The smoke continued to rise. There was no response - Bobby hadn’t expected one - but the silence seemed damning, nonetheless. Not damning in action, no, he was resolute in his actions. But in the fact that his friend had fallen so far.

When there was nothing left but ash, Bobby gathered it up into a tupperware container. He’d have to find something to do for it. John’d never had any wishes for his body, so long as it was cremated first. He’d never wanted to be a ghost, and didn’t care what happened to his corpse once he’d left it.

Maybe he’d ask Dean what he wanted. Sam was probably too young to understand.

Maybe he’d gouge his own eyes out and save himself from having to look at the poor kids when he had to break the news.

Maybe that was his punishment, for betrayal. The consequences of his own actions. Bobby’d killed his own father when he wasn’t much older than Dean, and while it was painful… he had no regrets. But he’d made that choice. He doubted Dean was at that point, though. He still looked up to his dad - Bobby _knew_ he did - which would make all of this harder on him.

But it was better, long-term. He could save the kid pain - and he was getting Sam out of it, too. He had no doubt that Dean was taking the brunt of John’s anger, but he’d sooner eat his hat than admit to the fact that, even given how young Sam was, there wasn’t a chance in Hell that Dean was able to take all of it.

Bobby walked back into his house, forcing himself to walk over the spot that John had died in. Avoiding it would create a habit, and habits led to questions. Placing the container of ashes onto the kitchen table, he sat down, cracking open a beer and taking a long pull from it. Frowning, he sat - he knew he had to call someone. Probably the kids, let them know to come here. He’d tell them in-person, it’d be easier on them that way. Besides, knowing Dean, he’d probably try to get away with not telling Sam at all. Not wanting to share even a modicum of pain. Never mind the fact that, unlike pie, pain was infinite. There was no point in trying to carry it all, since it wouldn’t take anything away.

Hm. Maybe murdering close friends makes a person ‘deep’.

“Fuck that.” Bobby said aloud, casting a glare at the box of ash. All he’d wanted was a normal life as a hunter. Why did John have to go and mess it all up, with his kids and his anger and his… ugh, he was far too sober for this.

Bobby got to his feet. The box of ash placed in a pantomime of if John had actually been at the table. The beer he’d pretended to intend to share with him sitting in the fridge.

Bobby decided he no longer wanted a drink.

He hauled himself to his feet, avoiding looking at the box - and instead went over to his address book. He had to call Ellen, she’d make sure the news - and the cover story - got around. Bobby didn’t want hunters showing up asking after Winchester. Especially since Dean was so hell-bent on carrying on his father’s work.

He rang her first. He’d always had a soft spot for Ellen. They had a similar sort of job - didn’t go in the field anymore, just worked in the background. It worked better for them both that way. Bobby had suggested John do the same, once, after Mary had died but before he’d started drinking so much, but John had flatly refused to even consider it.

“Bobby, I wasn’t expecting you.” Ellen said, the background noise full of clinking. “Always a pleasure, though.”

“Are you busy?” Bobby asked, hoping she’d say yes. Hoping he wouldn’t have to speak words to his actions. Not wanting to make the results known to the universe, sending up the signal of a secret he’d never reveal.

“Just unpacking some crates, I’ve got time. What’s up?”

Well, he supposed he wasn’t exactly entitled to luck tonight.

“I’ve got bad news.” He said, “John Winchester died tonight. Damn fool made a deal with a demon.”

“What?” There was an abrupt smack of something heavy being set down. “Bobby, are you sure?” Her voice was sharp - as if he would be stupid enough to make a joke like that. To her no less.

“Yeah, I’m pretty fucking sure. Burned his body in my own damn backyard.” Bobby let some of his bitterness seep through - whether it was bitterness at having John force his hand, or bitterness at himself for having done it, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t care to know.

“Why would he do that? He’s not stupid.”

“Traded his life for Dean’s. Back at that car accident.” Bobby replied shortly - it was technically true, and besides, he trusted Ellen to not probe further. He also knew that that tidbit wasn’t going to be included in the gossip at the Roadhouse, either.

Sure enough, she didn’t ask any further questions, instead just sighing heavily. “Fuck.” Ellen muttered, her voice tinged with well-masked pain, “He always was a self-sacrificing bastard.”

He knew she was thinking about Jo when she said that. But Bobby didn’t acknowledge the obvious distress in her tone - knew she wouldn’t want him to notice it. She’d had to bury more than a fair share of friends.

They both had.

“Wait, what about the kids?” Ellen asked suddenly. Her sadness was gone, buried down and with other thoughts shoved forcefully on top. “I’ve got my hands full with the Roadhouse and Jo, but there’s always room at my table for ‘em. If they don’t mind working the bar, anyway.”

Bobby snorted. “Yeah, I’m sure that would go over well. I’m not so sure being around all that drink’ll be good for them.” He hesitated, before suggesting, “But, well, I was thinking about taking them in myself. You know, I… I look after them a lot already, when John was on hunts.”

Ellen was silent - he realized belatedly it was probably rude to speak ill of the so recently dead, but he found that he didn’t particularly care. He wasn’t going to romanticize John just because the fucker died - the fact that he’d killed him had nothing to do with it. John Winchester had enough hunters gushing over him already. He didn’t see why the people who knew more about the… downsides of the man pretend not to just for the sake of what, reminiscing?

Bobby was sure he’d be listening to people ‘reminisce’ about John Winchester until the end of time, and probably for a while after that, too.

“You looking after them sounds like a good idea.” Ellen said finally, “I’m always available for watching ‘em if you’re busy, though. I never did get to see them much with John.” Her tone implied something, not dissimilar to his own jab at John's drinking - almost testing the waters for something.

“Thanks. I appreciate it.” Bobby really did. There was no doubt in his mind that, if she thought the kids’d be better in her hands, she’d have said so. In the same vein, he knew that if she ever thought he had become incapable, she’d take them to the Roadhouse without hesitation.

Maybe that was why John didn’t let her watch the kids as much as Bobby. Maybe he had thought he would turn a blind eye to it all. If that was the case, then John had been deeply mistaken.

He wondered if she’d go so far as to kill John for their sake, too. If he was being honest, she probably would - the thought was a cold comfort.

They were hunters. And hunters don’t do things by half-measures.

“I’ll bring ‘em over. Is the… did you clean it all up? I don’t want them seeing anything… messy.”

“Yeah, yeah, all of that’s been taken care of.” Bobby took off his cap, rubbing at his forehead before putting it back on. “I- thanks, Ellen. I owe you one.”

“Anything I can do to help those boys.” Ellen replied simply, “Be there in 20.”

Bobby hung up, hating the silence that filled the air once again. What had once been a peaceful quiet now felt oppressive - perhaps from the fact that it was supposed to be filled with John’s loud laughter and the clink of drinks.

But Bobby refused to think about it like that. Refused to think about John like that. It didn’t matter that John was his friend - the guy hit his kids. Therefore, he was now dead.

It was that simple.

Similar to the simple fact that he had just volunteered himself to basically raise two children.

Fuck.

Not like he was wary of anything even remotely approaching parenthood or anything. Maybe he shouldn’t have killed John just because of that. The thought crossed his mind jokingly, but Bobby buried it quickly anyway. He didn’t want to even start _considering_ regretting his decision. The last thing he needed was to get worked up over it all.

Still, fact stood, he didn’t know the first thing about being a parent. Well, no, actually, Bobby admitted, that wasn’t true. He knew not to be like his own father. Knew not to be like John, either - bitterness at his old friend seeping into his mind once more.

Bobby found he preferred the bitterness to the guilt - after all, there was nothing to feel guilty for. Well, except for maybe having to tell the kids.

Oh, fuck. He had to tell the kids. Bobby really, really, didn’t want to. Maybe he could just… let Ellen do it. She was slightly more estranged from them, maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much. He knew he was deluding himself, just as how he knew Ellen would much rather leave that matter to him. It didn’t matter that both of them faced down all manner of nasty creatures, when it came to breaking news of death to two children… they were both cowards.

He wasn’t telling anyone, _ever_ how John had died. That’s going to his grave, or, well, his funeral pyre, anyway. But Bobby sure as Hell wasn’t telling them even the cover story for how he died - knowledge of the demon deal would probably fuck up Dean even more than he already was - but he knew he had to tell them that he was gone. He couldn’t hide away with this pile of ashes and a beer that’s gone lukewarm and just… pretend that it hadn’t happened.

Bobby turned around, trying to decide what to do with the ashes, before finally just placing it on his desk, obscured from view. He didn’t like the idea of John’s remains being in his house, but if the kids wanted to keep it - him? them? He wasn’t sure how to refer to ashes of what used to be a person - whatever. If the kids wanted to keep… the ashes, he would let them.

Bobby was considering just drinking himself into a stupor, but decided against it. After all, he didn’t want to remind the kids of their father now, did he?

That was a bit mean, he acknowledged to himself, but John Winchester was an abuser, so he figured he got a pass on mentally berating the guy.

Bobby was pulled out of his thoughts by knocking on his door. He walked to it, mentally steeling himself, before opening the door.

Dean immediately bounced forward. “Hey, Bobby!” He said cheerfully, eyes bright behind the sickly yellow bruise that marred the left side of his face.

“Hello, Dean.” Bobby replied, feeling a twitch of rage towards a dead man at the sight - he took some relish in knowing that the man would never be able to raise a hand to his kids again.

“Bobby.” Ellen said somberly, drawing his attention up to her weary expression.

He nodded at the silent message. “You two, why don’t you go on inside? There’s some soda in the fridge.” He had started stocking the stuff after the kids had started showing up to his place to begin with - after Mary’s death.

Dean scampered inside - eager to obey. Bobby’d prefer not to think about why that was. Sam followed after, practically tripping over his own feet, flashing a smile up to Bobby nonetheless. Hopefully Sam would be too young to have remembered John at all - even if he had somehow escaped most of the man’s drunken rage, there was no way the kid hadn’t seen some of it anyway.

Once the two were out of sight - and earshot - Ellen shook her head, leaning heavily against the doorframe.

“Fuck, Bobby.”

“Yeah.”

There was silence between them, stretching out into a chasm. He knew she had questions. And he knew that she knew not to ask them.

“I can be here.” She said finally, jutting her chin towards the house. “For when you tell ‘em. If… if you want me to.” She didn’t seem enthused by the idea.

“No, it’s alright. I got it. It’s my responsibility.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

She didn’t bother trying to hide the relief on her face. “Thank God. I really didn’t want to see those boys cry.”

“Yeah.” Bobby wasn’t exactly looking forward to it either.

“You know… you don’t have to tell them. Give them a bit more time. Just… a couple extra days of thinking their dad’s alive.” She shrugged, trying to hide the growing tension in her shoulders. “It’s a mercy that not many are offered.”

Bobby was tempted. He really, really was. Some of that must have shown on his face, since Ellen smiled at him sadly.

“You know no one would hold it against you.” Her tone somehow belayed something more. He narrowed his eyes at her, and she looked impassively back. “I mean it. Whatever you… decide, it wouldn’t be something I’d blame you for. I trust your reasoning.”

They weren’t talking about telling the kids anymore. Bobby nodded once at her, an understanding passing between them. Her fingers tightened on her arms where they were crossed, and her face flashed with the same bitterness that Bobby felt weighing so heavily on his own heart.

“The kids won’t take the news well.” Bobby said finally.

Ellen grimaced, the bitterness fading away into a generalized concern. “Yeah, well, there’s no way getting around that.”

“Well thanks for the vote of confidence.” He retorted.

“Sorry, Bobby.” She shrugged again, before straightening up, “When this is all sorted, you should come to the Roadhouse. We can… share a drink, talk about the good times.”

“I’ll take the drink. You can keep the talking to yourself.” Bobby said, earning himself a smack on the arm from her.

“You’re a bastard, you know that?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m aware.”

He watched as Ellen walked back to her car - he could practically see her posture starting to crumble. Bobby knew that she’d leave his junkyard, make it a couple of miles, and then have to pull over. Ellen only ever really got emotional in private - as compared to him, who kept his emotions private from everyone, including himself - but he knew it did happen. Sure, she was on his side in this, and would help him get the news out in a polished way that sent no suspicion his way, but still. John had been her friend, too.

Ellen was a grown up, she could handle herself. But the two children who were in his kitchen right now… well, he had to deal with them.

Bobby traipsed back inside, closing the door behind him. Two sets of eyes looked back at him.

“Did Ellen leave?” Dean asked, “I wanted to tell her about my shooting! Dad said I’m getting really good.” The tone was one of pride - something that made Bobby taste that same bitterness - Dean didn’t know what, or rather who, his father had been training him to kill. Well, he doubted the kid knew anyway, since he was sitting next to Sam, who was swinging his legs back and forth on the stool aimlessly. Bobby wouldn’t put it past John to have told the kid exactly what he was doing this for to begin with - it seemed like the kind of mindfuck John would see as a benefit. Anything to get the result, after all.

“Yeah, she left.” Bobby said after a moment. “She had to go back to take care of some stuff at the Roadhouse.”

Neither child questioned it - Dean because he wasn’t supposed to ask questions - courtesy of John’s ‘teaching’ - and Sam because he was preoccupied with scraping a stain off of the top of the table.

Bobby sat down across from them, picking up his beer. The thought of speaking made his throat dry.

“Look, kids, I… you’re going to be staying here for a while.”

“Why?” Sam asked immediately, eyes flicking back up from the stain to fix on him - while the kid preferred silently observing, nothing got him hooked faster than a mystery.

Bobby hesitated.

“Is dad’s hunt taking long?” Dean asked, “He said I was good at taking care of Sammy and didn’t need us to go anywhere.”

“What did Ellen tell you?” Bobby asked. He’d rather not contradict her, just in case she had mentioned anything.

“She said you’d say.”

“Okay. Yeah.” Bobby hesitated again. “Yeah. Your uh, your dad died.”

Fuck. He probably couldn’t have phrased that worse if he’d tried.

A fact Bobby was suddenly very, very aware of - children cry when they are told bad news. Which was deeply uncomfortable - Bobby had never been one to cry, even as a child. His father had certainly made sure of that, so he had absolutely no idea of how to even approach this. He found himself wishing he had taken up Ellen’s offer after all. Even she couldn’t be as bad at this as he was.

“He, um, he died… saving someone.” Bobby was trying to soften the blow, but judging by the fact that the two were still crying… he was doing a shit job of it.

As if there was a way to say it right. He probably deserved this, Bobby admitted, as his heart twisted at the sight of two children having their lives shattered. Who was he to think he was capable of raising kids? When someone he cared about died, he’d just drink until he stopped feeling bad - but somehow that probably wasn’t going to be an effective technique here.

“Who? Who’d he die for?” Dean asked, seeming to pull himself together quickly - a little too quickly, actually. As much as Bobby appreciated it, it seemed… unhealthy, for someone as young as him. Hiding his tears behind rapidly growing anger? It was strange how much Dean looked like his mother, since he had clearly picked up most of his emotional handling from his father. Hopefully that wasn’t set in stone, Bobby hoped to… lessen that influence.

“A kid.” Bobby answered.

“He should have let them die.” Dean spat, enraged.

A familiar expression on a much too young face. Bobby had seen it on John’s face more than once. John always had a choice to be sad or to be angry, and he chose angry every single fucking time. It made him despise the man all the more. Kids weren’t supposed to _hate_. They were supposed to… play catch and learn about the planets or something.

“That’s not true.” Bobby answered, knowing - or at least hoping - that Dean was just saying that because he was upset. “Your father… was a good man,” He gritted the words out, “And he died doing the right thing.”

Dean looked like he wanted to argue, but a loud sob from Sam distracted him - shifting his attention from Bobby, and the news, to comforting his brother - and immediately his expression morphed from that uncontained rage to a very carefully crafted compassion.

If he didn’t fight monsters for a living, Bobby’d think it was scary how quickly Dean’s emotions morphed to fit the needs of those around him.

“I cremated J- your dad. Do you want to keep the ashes?”

Dean took his eyes off of Sam just long enough to make eye contact with Bobby. “What would we want a box of dirt for?” His voice was still gentle - still trying to comfort Sam, even in that moment - but the words, and his disdainful eyes, cut straight into Bobby’s soul.

“Alright, I’ll… I’ll take care of it.” Bobby stood up. “You two, uh, don’t wander off.” He added unnecessarily, before walking to his office, picking up the container and walking outside.

Leaving the boys to their mourning.

Bobby walked into the brush past his house, far out of the way of where anyone would traverse.

He dumped over the bin without ceremony, letting the ashes hit the ground and spill out across the dirt.

Bobby kicked at the dirt aimlessly. “You shouldn’t have hit the kid, John.” He said. “It doesn’t matter how good of a hunter you are. Were. There’s no reason for it. Dean’s a good kid, not that it matters either way when it comes to this.” His heart was still heavy with bitterness, and he forced himself to let it go. John was dead. It didn’t matter anymore.

“Shouldn’t have hit the kid.” He repeated, turning the tupperware over in his hands to make sure all the ashes were out of it before heading back inside.

Bobby threw the container into the trash can - he’d rather not use it again for its intended purpose - and looked to the table. The children were gone from it, and for a brief moment he felt a surge of panic - it would be just his luck to have them run away on the first night of them being here - but dismissed the thought quickly. Sam was crying too much to run, and Dean wouldn’t leave without Sam.

Bobby poked around, and it didn’t take long to find them on his peeling leather couch. Sam was asleep, head leaned on the armrest and sneakered shoes on the seat, whereas Dean was glaring at the floor like he was trying to burn a hole in it with just his gaze.

Well, at least they’d stopped crying. And Bobby figured they’d probably benefit from the sleep.

“Dean, you can go to bed. There’s, uh, there’s a guest bedroom. I can get it set up-”

“No thanks.” Dean looked up at him, glare clearing into a generic blankness. His trained politeness back in place. “I’m gonna stay here and watch out for Sammy. That’s what dad told me to do.” His voice caught on the end of it.

“Alright.” Bobby nodded, deciding not to protest it. Whatever helped the kid cope. He crossed the room, digging through a bin to pull out a couple of blankets. He went to hand them to Dean, who had gone back to staring at the floor.

“Kid.” He said after a moment, when he showed no sign of looking up.

Dean’s head moved back, and he took the blankets - not quite meeting his gaze.

“Goodnight, Bobby.” He said - carefully polite, and phrased as a request. In this dim lighting, it looked like there was no bruise at all. If only John’s influence could be erased so easily. If only his presence over his children could be burned up like his bones.

Bobby took Dean’s words for the dismissal it was. “Goodnight. Call if you need anything.”

He turned and left - sparing a glance back to see Dean covering Sam with one of the blankets - before turning and heading to his own bedroom, taking refuge in it.

Bobby shook his head - how John thought he was raising Dean to kill Sam, he had no idea. Dean cared for his younger brother quite a bit. Aside from John’s praise, anyway, Bobby supposed it was close to the top of his list of priorities.

Fuck.

Maybe he should get a parenting book.

He doubted _“How to raise children whose father you killed”_ was going to be on any bookshelves, though.

Bobby thumped into his bed, staring at the ceiling and not bothering to turn the light off. There was absolutely no chance of him sleeping, that much he knew, but he figured he could at least pantomime it. He reasoned that it was okay he wasn’t sleeping - after all, what if one of the kids called for him?

But Bobby knew that they wouldn’t.

John had taught them not to ask for help.

Well, he reasoned, that was something he could fix. Maybe he wouldn't be a very good parental figure, but he figured he could begin with undoing the harm John had done. It was a starting place, at least.

With any luck, Bobby might actually raise them right.

**Author's Note:**

> this is self-indulgent, i like bobby and ellen both. also i remember that bobby's dad was abusive and was like... hmmmm when i was seeing disc-horse about john being in dean's heaven. also yeah there's no age of either dean or sam and i probably got like 50 things wrong. in my defense: i am too lazy to check stuff :D
> 
> my first spn fic, 2020's destiel's canonicity dragged me back into this fandom bc that was one of my og ships (like... ever) :) ~~that said pls don't involve me in any ship wars, i don't want to participate and am very easily stressed, spn fandom is crazy big and that's really stressful~~
> 
> feel free to leave a comment if ur so inclined <3


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